Under My Skin
by citigirl13
Summary: Brian comes to the conclusion that Justin has gotten under his skin - and he wishes to God that someone would give him something to get rid of him. Drabble of Brian's feeling for Justin.


**This story probably won't get that many reviews, if any – but I wanted to write it, and I like to think that I don't write fanfics just for the reviews (though I've got to admit, they do cheer me up). **

**The truth is these two have been in my head for a while now and I think they're the reason I'm suffering from writer's block. But hopefully after writing this I've finally broken through. This is the first time I've written for QAF so I hope I've got them both in character **

**GRAMMAR POINT: This is the first time I've written in this narrative before. Just so you know, the capitals on some "You"s are done purposefully as it didn't feel right leaving some of them in lower-case. If you get confused just try reading the sentence in first-person narrative and you'll understand why I capitalised them. **

**Anyway...I hope you all enjoy the story!**

**It's set between Justin's time with the Pink Posse and Brian's cancer **

**DISCLAIMER:**** I do not own **_**Queer As Folk **_**or any of the characters**

**xXx**

**Under My Skin**

"_I guess we're all a little scared our first time." _

That's what You say to him the first night you're together (using that term _extremely _loosely). It was meant in a different way than what You're thinking now, what You can't help but think these words might mean.

If You told Justin these traitorous thoughts, he would laugh. Or perhaps he would just get this smug _I-told-you-so _grin on his face and You wouldn't hear the end of it for days. You think at the end he would be comforting, or at least stop with the teasing and be understanding (You don't know which is worse):

"It's okay Bri; we're all a little scared the first time we fall in love."

**xXx**

You asked him about it once. He was half asleep at the time and You doubt he even remembers (You hope).

"Why do you love me?"

You couldn't say it to him (not then, not now, not ever); but You wonder why _he _loves _you_. He has proven that he could have anyone he wants – God knows he would get treated better elsewhere. And he knows You're not going to say it. So why does he still insist on loving you? On putting both of you through this torture?

Eyes closed he rolled over towards you, that blonde hair catching in the smallest amount of the light it could find (his hair still amazes you to this day). For a few moments You're sure he hasn't heard you. But he does answer.

"Because," he says.

You wonder whether he was starting a list and just fell asleep half-way through. But You know that's not true. Justin's one of those idiotic romantic types (You wonder how You ended up with one of _those_) and to him _"because" _is enough of an answer.

You find yourself thinking that maybe it's enough.

**xXx**

You try to forget about him. So You go to Babylon and dance with the hottest guys. You try to lose yourself in the music, swaying your God-damn-gorgeous hops to the beat, knowing that all eyes are on you.

But it's not enough. Had been once upon a time; not anymore. You can feel the weight of his stare on you. Sometimes it makes you feel powerful; other times it reminds you of what You're missing. Other times You glance over and see him chatting with someone else. You like to think that You have a good poker face, that it doesn't show how scared shitless You are over losing him. You know that Justin loves you; but that doesn't mean that he won't find someone else who he could also love. Sometimes he goes off and You worry until You see him again, even if that's the next day. If You're lucky You see the guy eyeing Justin before he does and You manage to intercept him; either that or You're forced to shove your tongue down Justin's throat to show that he's _yours_ (yeah, what torture _that _is).

What's worse is when Justin _isn't _there, and then You spend the night wondering where he is, what he's doing – or _who _he's doing – that is better than being at Babylon with you.

So You go home with a guy who is hot and horny and You try to forget about him. Through the hands on your skin and the sweat and the blow job, You try to keep your mind off him. But no matter who You do or what You do to them or what drugs You take, You still wake up with the scent of Justin's skin in your nose and your hand reaches out, yearning for his touch –

- and you come to the conclusion that Justin is under your skin, like the blood in your veins and the cells in your body.

You wish to God that someone would give You something to get rid of him.

**xXx**

He swings into the diner later than usual (not that You've been keeping track or anything). You're sitting in a booth alone, reading the newspaper and trying to pretend that You haven't been on the look-out for him. His eyes are bright and he looks fresh as if he's just been put through the washing machine. Your stomach clenches because it's utterly obvious that he's been fucked. You wouldn't want to be in a committed relationship (the only committed relationship You'll ever be in is with the ground after You've been buried) but You occasionally wish Justin wouldn't be in anyone else's bed but yours.

You come to the conclusion that You're getting old.

"Hey," he greets, sliding opposite You.

You don't answer because You wouldn't normally. You try not to look at him because You don't want to see him like this if You're not the one who's made him grin.

Fingers slide over the paper, tempting and taunting. You raise your gaze to him. "Something I can help you with?"

"Are there dicks in there?" he quips and You roll your eyes at his predictable response. You know him; You can predict his words, his movements, even that curve of that ridiculous smile.

"Definitely," You reply and try not to feel victorious when You see it.

"Want to share breakfast?"

"I already ate."

"Not me," he murmurs. He reaches forward and manages to catch your cheek. You allow his lips to touch you; it feels like a butterfly has landed, so soft and so...simple. You've given up trying to describe what his kisses feel like (that would be a very lesbian thing to do). Your skin tingles and You have the conflicting emotions of wanting the feeling and hating it because You're Brian Kinney – You don't feel this way.

You move away.

"What's your problem?" he asks. His voice betrays his annoyance.

"Nothing." You can't make him understand. Hell, _You _don't even understand why You're feeling this way. You're acting like some fucking dyke.

Justin though, he just smiles again and it infuriates you. "You forget, I know you." He moves closer, his hand tilting your chin up. His breath becomes your air and you let him take control, just for now. "I was thinking about you the entire time," he whispers, a phrase that is probably true and You would feel triumphant if _You_ hadn't happened to be thinking of _him_ the entire time You were fucking that guy.

You like to think that usually You're not that easily swayed – but You're tired and You have missed that smile of his. So You move your lips to his and let him kiss you and maybe You even kiss him back.

You break away when You're satisfied that You're safe, he's safe, he's still yours. "We don't want people to throw up their breakfast.

"They've seen worse."

"I mean a little fucker like you kissing me. Must sicken them that I've had to sink this low."

He knows You don't mean it – You know You don't mean it. He laughs and for a second it annoys you that You can't get to him like You used to. "I'll get us some pancakes."

"I don't want any," You argue.

"Then _I'll _get some, and if you happen to what any you can have some of mine."

You're already reaching for your wallet. "You don't have any money on you," You state. You know he'll have spent it all last night, doing God knows what (You acknowledge that You don't really want to know).

"Relax," he says, sending you a wink. "I know the owner."

You watch him walk away, that butt of his practically a neon sign in those jeans (and he knows it) and talk to the chef. The simple motion of him running a hand through his hair makes you get a hard-on –

- and makes your heart melt. Not leap or race – but _melt. _

And You know that no matter what, You're pretty much screwed.


End file.
